Art of Birth and Death
by Neko Kuroban
Summary: Ten years before the events of the game, Yuna and Seymour met on an empty beach.
1. Chapter One: Moon over Water

Author's Notes: Seymour is only a few years older than Yuna in this fic - it simply wouldn't have worked if they weren't at least something resembling peers. It may be out-of-character, but, keep in mind, this is set ten years pregame.  
  
Art of Birth and Death For Lucrecia Levrai (Kocham Cie)  
  
The little girl walked barefoot along the city streets, clad in a thin cotton night gown, edged with lace. It reached her feet, so that only her small, pale toes were visible in the dim morning light. Walking barefoot in this part of Bevelle was far less dangerous than anywhere else in the lovely metropolis; it was mainly a residential district for the more well-off, and refuse was cleaned by servants of the public - usually those who had been excommunicated from the Temple, and, instead of execution, had cast themselves and their families into the lowest of castes, where they were degraded and ignored, vitually invisible.  
  
The sky was still dark with the faintest hint of light rising over the eastern horizen, the moon hanging low, full and silver, on the opposite side of the sky. She felt strange, apprehensive, as if she were in a seperate world, trapped between night and day, life or death.  
  
She was precocious for a child, quiet but unwavering. There was a strange thoughtfulness and grace in her eyes, in her face, and in her movements - rare to find in an adult of the large city of Bevelle, and quite eerie, to some to find in a mere child of seven.  
  
Her hair was russet, cut to her chin in a face-framing bob, mussed from sleep, but her eyes - so strangely colored, one clear sapphire, the other bright jade - showed no signs of weariness. Her mouth was solemn - she did not smile often, but when she did, it was lit from an inner warmth.  
  
Her father was dying.  
  
The small girl shivered, though whether it was from the chill of the soft breeze or the chill inside her heart, she didn't know. Since her mother had passed, her father had seemed to be the only thing she had left, until two months ago when he had, in gentle tones, explained to her that he was going to leave on a journey that would make the whole world of Spira better.  
  
"What do you think, Yunalesca?" He was, perhaps excluding her mother whom she could hardly recall, the only one to call her by her given name. Everyone else - including the usually formal Sir Auron - always called her Yuna. Yunalesca was, to the people of Spira, a goddess, cool and aloof. A beautiful angel with an icy cascade of silver hair and glowingly pale moonlight-skin, in paintings and statues.  
  
"I-I don't like it." She had answered, the stutter she had lost when she was six suddenly returned, but not as prominent as it had been. She had drawn in a sharp breath, and forced herself to put her next words in order, though her speech would come slowly, "but I don't think the Crusaders like fighting, even the really brave ones."  
  
Braska had smiled, slow and brittle at that, pulling her into an embrace and kissing her temple. His eyes had glistened with something akin to tears, and he had not said a word about his Pilgriage again, until the night before he left, when he took her to his sister's home.  
  
Now, she approached a low wooden gate, and, standing tip-toed to undo the rusted latch, slipped past. She entered a sweet-smelling wood, closing her eyes in relish of the sudden transition of grand city to nature. Her lashes parted after a few moments, and she looked around, with all the curiousity of childhood. She had been to these woods, but they never failed to amaze her in their tranquil spell.  
  
She followed a winding path, until the sky was pink and red blurred together, and the ocean sang in her ears. She fliched as her feet came into contact with the rocky coast lines, but carefullly and lightly made her way down the slope.  
  
There was a boy sitting on her rock, staring out into the sea.  
  
She drew in a sharp breath. He certainly like the elves of ages passed and despite the fact that he was not too much her senior - he was perhaps twelve, but he seemed so regal, as if he had been forced to grow up earlier than he ought.  
  
His eyes glittered icy indigo, a gentle, yet cool shade between blue and violet, cradled by thick, matted cyan hair, pulled into a loose, tumbling tail that fell to his elbows. His slender hands with long, fine-shaped fingers hang loose by his sides, as if they were already too elegent to simply disappear into his pockets.  
  
When his eyes flickered to her, the little girl fumbled with a bow, bowing deeper, in the Guado fashion - head lowered, hands on knees, - and longer than was strictly polite for mere strangers. She had the feeling that he was not an average stranger.  
  
She crossed to 'her' rock, perching on the edge of the broad, flat stone. Keeping herself distanced from strangers had not been taught to her yet - later in her life, she would see it as a useless skill to keep isolated from others, the people she would one day long to save.  
  
"Konnichiwa." she greeted clumsily in his tongue.  
  
"Your accent is deplorable." the boy replied flawlessy in the common tongue.  
  
She smiled slightly, "Yes, I know." Silence reined until she broke it, "Someone once told me that whoever taught me 'had the pronunciation of a hen.'" She offered. This drew a soft chuckle from the boy. "Why are you here?"  
  
"I've heard that Bevelle has beautiful sunrises."  
  
"They're very pretty. Have you... seen the sunrise before?"  
  
"Yes," a ghost of a smile played at his lips, "how old are you?"  
  
"Seven," she answered, "Are you travelling with your family?"  
  
"I'm here for school," the boy answered softly, "I have no family." Seeing her interest, he elaborated, "My mother ... is dead," he stopped saying 'passed away' a year ago. It did not fit what had happened. "And my father might as well be."  
  
Dimly, the youth remembered the rumors that followed his mother's unexplained death.  
  
"...I heard the kid poisoned his own mother!"  
  
"Well, I heard..."  
  
"...suicide..."  
  
"...funeral was a beautiful event..."  
  
"...hell took the succubus back, I suppose..."  
  
"...heard Lord Jyscal drove his own wife to do that!?"  
  
"...her body was as perfect as ever..."  
  
"...pale though... maybe she was sick?"  
  
He knew though. The only one who knew what had transpired the night before his mother's passing, and he refused to speak of it.  
  
Yuna's mind was awhirl, the idea was wildly novel, that someone could possibly relate to her. She was about to speak when a bird shrieked, and the tide sprayed the rock. The waves were wild, colliding with one another, directly affecting, but all of them dependant on each other, linked somehow on that morning.  
  
Like the art of birth and death, that both children suffered from.  
  
Author's Notes: Pathetic and insignificant, but it was written at 1:53. Review please, I will treasure the little feedback I will get for this. 


	2. Chapter Two: Hope

Author's Notes: (blushes) I'm sorry for being so late to write this, but I wasn't sure if it would detract from the first part. So I waited, broke a toe, left my original rough draft while I was getting previously mentioned broken toe x-rayed, and debated with myself on whether to recreate it...Sorry! Anyway, many, many hugs go to Noa, Soul Vagabond, Silvie-chan, YojimbosBlade, Creole, Eva Kasumi, and Lucrecia LeVrai.  
  
And this fanfic is still dedicated to Lucrecia.

Art of Birth and DeathThe barest edge of Guadosalam is strange, nearly haunting. The ground is higher and the gaps in the canopy are largy allowing natural light to filter through the web of gnarled tree roots that cradle the city, and the biting chill of the above world begins to set in. An aged cabin is nestled carefully - the house does not have the same type of design the rest of Guadosalam does. Here there is no variation of rich wood to create and carve extravagant scrollwork; only bare pine boards fitted together, leaving cracks that bitter cold can easily seep through. This is where the oracle lives.

The oracle is young in years, but her cursed fate has given her not only wisdom and maturity, but also great age. For every year that she desperately clings onto life, her body ages ten. The veils of time have taken much from her, her youth and vitality only few of many, but her voice remains. Her voice is constantly calm and collected, but with far too many inflections to be considered monotonous. And, perchance, she will speak... if you listen.  
  
The oracle says that one cannot go on living when hope is stripped from them. The soul will waste away, until they are naught but a slowly-decaying shell that soon follows the body into death. All because of hope.  
  
Pandora, stunning and elegant, was presented to the mortals as a gift from the gods. At first, the mortal woman was not seen for what she was, and was lauded as a blessing, rather than a hidden curse. The mortals hailed Pandora, elevating her to near-goddess status. She radiated grace as she posed for artisans as they struggled to capture her likeness. She could dance without a care in the world when surrounded by drunken revelry, even as she, seated at a place of highest honors, presided with a noble air over prestigous events. Gifts quickly piled beside her, from gods and mortals alike. Then, she recieved the box. It was plain and crude, shabby against the grandeur of the hall. With the box came the only order anyone had dare issued her: she must never open it.  
  
The simple lid began to look as appealing as any gilded trinket box she had been given. Her burning curiosity grew to the point where she was forced to brush her fingers against the lid everytime she passed. One day, when the temptation grew too great, she pulled off the unassuming wooden lid.  
  
Dark, screeching shadows soared out of the box, clawing at Pandora's fair skin, yanking viciously on her silken robes and luxuriant hair. Her long strand of pearls snapped, the miniature orbs scattering and rolling across the marble floor. And still the shadows fought her. Despair and Sorrow tore at her, even as bruises began to form. Then, abruptly, white light flared, dispelling the shadows. Pandora sobbed brokenly until footsteps neared, and the gentle touch of a seraph forced her to look up. Her anguish lessened as Hope embraced her.  
  
Hope could make or break an individual.  
  
Pandora had been healed by hope, but so many others had been wounded by it. Even Apollo, a son of Zeus, had despaired because of the hope that remained when Daphne, a young mortal, rejected his affections. After she plead, her father, a demi-god of water, turned Daphne to the form of laurel tree. Apollo, hoping that she would one day revert to her mortal flesh, convinced himelf that he could feel her heart beating under the bark. He crowned the tree once every year, refusing to believe that her heart had long stopped. And the forbidden love between the goddess that tended to the moon and the prince of the earth. The child that blossomed from the passion was cursed to a half-life as a prisoner. It was the same child of heaven and earth that was to defeat Hades, driving him back into the hellish depths he reigned over.  
  
Evelyn had loved that tale; it would cause her brown eyes to light and her lips to curve into a smile. Sometimes, however, her tawny eyes would grow pensieve, lingering on the boy. Even as a young child, Seymour had thought the story she enjoyed was far too unreal. But, at the moment, it remained in his mind as a rare glimpse into the woman he called mother.  
  
In life, she had been both mercurial and mysterious, and almost contradictory. At strange occasions, she had stopped abruptly in the foyer of the family's manor, looking up at the domed ceiling to the depiction of Serenity and Endymion's child, preserved in oil paints and framed by gold-leaf trim. As time passed, Seymour began to wonder. What was she like? What kind of woman had listened to her husband play the piano, flashing a sleepy smile, and spent long afternoons immersing herself in volumes of poetry, but never went anywhere without a weapon? Perhaps he was still a child at heart. Perhaps he never really knew her.  
  
Seymour's long fingers grazed something as he slipped his wind-chilled hands into his pockets. Her smiled wryly and pulled the object out, turning it over and over in her hands, like he had done many times before.  
  
The dagger, sheathed in black leather, was small enough to be easily concealed. The blade was crafted from a rare alloy and honed to the point that it could part skin and draw blood at the lightest graze. The hilt was adorned with a twin pair of emeralds and a mosaic of obsidian, a sort of rare, natural black glass found amongst Kilika's ash beds.  
  
It was the same dagger his mother had carried.  
  
The young boy sighed, tugging a hand through his touseled, sky-colored bangs - and wincing when he hit a tangle. He looked at the girl who was sharing the wide, flat rock with him. Her eyes met his twilight-hued orbs, and he started, realizing that one of her eyes was jade, without a visible pupil. His features softened slightly. "You're part Al Bhed, aren't you?"  
  
She gnawed anxiously on her bottom lip for a few very long seconds. Finally, she nodded solemnly. "Half." She admitted. Her teeth dug into her lip again. "Please....please don't get mad..."  
  
A surge of anger race through him. How had she been treated, to make her ask that? 'No better than everyone's treated you.' Part of him whispered. He sighed, trying to get rid of the strange feeling that twisted his stomach. "Is it hard for you?" He asked.  
  
Distantly, a gull cried.  
  
She looked at the ocean to avoid his gaze. "Sometimes...well... a lot of times, really..." A rosy blush blossomed in her sun-bronzed cheeks before she continued, "Especially here in Bevelle." She looked uneasy for a long moment, before the question burst forth, "Are you half-human?"  
  
"Yes." There was no bitterness in the youth's tone, he just sounded tired, as he replaced the dagger in his pocket.  
  
She pulled her knees to her chest and leaned back, balancing on her bare heels for a split second before rocking forward. "Is it hard for you?"  
  
The repeated question made him smile. He could not remember the last time someone had asked that. He could not remember being asked that ever. "Always." He answered. The smile still played at his lips.  
  
"I'm sorry." An emotion shone in her eyes that Seymour could not place. It was not pity, which he disliked. It was not the false sympathy that was so common from adults. It was...empathy.  
  
Unconsciously, the boy shifted a few inches closer to the girl as the wind picked up.  
  
She yawned expansively, eyelids drooping as she balanced her chin on the arm that was folded over a knee. "Can you wake me up in a few minutes?" She did not wait for his nod, burying her face into the skirt of her nightgown.  
  
Seymour flushed crimson, his pale face burning, at the action. It was trust, plain and simple, and he was aware. It was not often that he was trusted.  
  
He remembered, vaguely, a time when his mother was still alive and she had brought him to meet his grandparents. Seymour had been left alone and bored for most of the stay. His grandparents had refused to acknowledge his existance at all; a final insult to their runaway daughter. Distantly, Seymour remembered the shout of a man who he assumed was his grandfather. "You brought this upon yourself, Evelyn!" A terrible silence followed and Seymour, then five, had been terrified to touch anything during that lapse. And he had known from the way the maid watched his with such a critical eye, she was afraid as well.  
  
'...Wait...what happened after that?' He shook his head to clear it, but his own dejected thoughts returned.  
  
Trust was a rare, precious commodity. The other students at Winterhaven, the elitist boarding school he attended, viewed him with suspicious eyes. His hearing was more acute than a humans, he heard the things they whispered about him. Over the last two weeks, Seymour had heard that he was posessed by a demon, he was a devil's mage, he was evil, he shouldn't be pissed off... he killed his mother... His fists clenched angrily at his sides.  
  
His guardian in Bevelle had a frozen smile, but her gaze was sharp, discriminating. The woman, who had been granted temporary stewardship over him by his father, seemed to pick up on anything he did wrong - be it an accidental err or defending his own name. Seymour had no doubts as to what had filled her last rather lengthy letter to Guadosalam. 'Nothing more than want Sirius wrote last midwinter.' he assumed.  
  
The several guardians he had had over the last four years as he attended various boarding schools could care less, all they worried about was the money, which they recieved in surplus. At school, the teachers turned a collective blind eye to anything that involved him for mainly the same reasons. The few students who hadn't yet heard the rumors often glanced at him awkwardly, as if trying to discern his heritage.  
  
He looked fairly human, save for his incredible pallor, his long, slender fingers and the faint veins that were beginning to show, revealing his decent. He detested his ears - like all Guado, his were long and delicate, coming to a sharp pointed end - and he hated his features, obviously human, revealing too much of his Bevellian family.  
  
Was it possible to be accepted anywhere?  
  
Suddenly, the girl beside him jerked awake as if pulling herself from a nightmare. "I have to go!" She said suddenly, in one rapid breath, and stood quickly. "I come here every morning, so I'll probably see you again...But I need to go now!" She rambled quickly and sketched a very short half-bow. She broke into a quick run, stumbling over the rocky beach.  
  
Seymour started to call after her, only to realize, albeit lately, that he did not know her name.  
  
**(To Be Continued)**


End file.
